party girl
by blossom in ribcage
Summary: Angela knows what the most important thing for a woman is.


_i used to be so fragile  
but now i'm so wild_

* * *

A woman can't make it on her own, your mama tells you when you're twelve— hot summer day, smoking out on the broken porch, her eyes unfocused. You gotta have a man to take care of you, or you're fucked. That's the most important thing.

There's a bad scrape on your chin, barely scabbed over. You broke Louise Baker's nose after she called you a spic and your mama a dirty whore; your brother Tim says it's a shame you came out a girl, because you're twice as vicious as Curly. Your tangled mass of hair hasn't seen a brush in weeks. You're all knees and elbows, gap-toothed tomboy.

You understand me, Angel?

Your daddy died when you were five: bullet to the chest, two to the stomach. That's just what happens around here— daddies are drunks or in jail or dead, and yours managed to check all three boxes real fast. You don't remember him much, the ghost that haunts your mama, the ghost your brothers are never going to live up to. He called you his _princesa_ whenever he came home from the pen, swung you into his arms and promised you the world, but no amount of ice cream cones or Barbies made up for his absence in your life when it really counted. He couldn't protect you from—

your stepdaddies, of which there were many, some lasting days and others lasting years. Your mama can't live long without a man giving orders and replenishing her supply of mother's little helper, and Jesus just wasn't cutting it anymore. They varied. Donald tried to feel up your budding tits in the middle of the kitchen. Eddie introduced you to acid tablets and laughed as you stumbled around, your vision kaleidoscopic. Liam said if you wanted, the two of you could blow this joint and drive up to Vegas, that you passed for eighteen easy. With all of them, you got used to living like a stranger in your own house, tiptoeing around, listening to the crash of plates and skin cracking against skin. Despite their fists, their belts, and their myriad threats, they couldn't protect you from—

your brothers, whose fate was written for them once they were born into this neighborhood. Tim started making trouble at thirteen, conquering territory with his switchblade and sharp tongue, and you never quite compared to that thrill. Curly was absorbed into Tim's world of fistfights and cheap liquor and deals gone wrong before his voice even broke. They loved you enough to bring home drug money, but not enough to stay out of prison or listen to you talk. And although they did their part after the fact, beating him into a bloody pulp for getting you drunk and cutting off all of your hair, they couldn't protect you from—

Bryon, because you'd gotten smart, by high school. You knew that you could never be a boy, no matter how hard you tried, but making one yours was the next best thing. You started wearing dark eyeliner, shortening your skirt hems with scissors and safety pins— eventually, pleaded no contest to the rumors that you were a slut. Hey, baby, he said as his arm looped around your waist, and you didn't trust his smile, but it wasn't like you trusted anyone else's more. He bought you a lot of booze, which shut up Jesus's voice in your head long enough for you to fuck him; that didn't make him an iota more interesting to you, in the end. He couldn't protect you from—

Ponyboy, everything the rest of your life was not. Sensitive, gentle, beautiful in a fragile kind of way; you wanted to take him apart. So you kicked Bryon to the curb— literally, shoved him out of your bed and laughed when he crashed to the floor— and went after him, because you're Angela fucking Shepard and you always win. Except this time, you miscalculated. This time, he told you where you could get off with a faint sneer, because he was just so much _better_ than a girl like you. Your rage reached critical mass, but the bottle didn't break over his head, and it didn't break Bryon, either. He couldn't protect you from—

Mike, a friend of Tim's, who promised you nothing and delivered just that; you knew not to even bother asking. You're seventeen now, a married woman, making all of your mother's mistakes and then some. Your stomach is empty, but you're still here.

You understand.


End file.
